The night in Zhengzhou, 1913 was still, the sky clear and filled with stars. Ivan Vyacheslav, a tall and strong man, stood at his window, gazing out at the quiet city. He had come to China to work, driven by the need to earn, to survive, to find something he had lost long ago.
His broad hands rested on the sill, the weight of his labor and the solitude of the foreign land heavy on his shoulders. The city hummed faintly in the distance, a reminder of a life he was no longer part of. Yet, beneath the silence, there was a strange sense of connection—the same yearning that had tugged at his heart in Russia now echoed in the stillness of the night.
Ivan pressed his forehead against the window, his thoughts drifting back to Russia. The streets of St. Petersburg, the cold air, the familiar faces—now all seemed like a distant memory.
He had come to China for work, for money, but the loneliness here weighed heavier than the labor. There were no friends, no family, only the endless cycle of work and solitude.
"Ah, if only I have friends and family to keep me company and hear my stories." Said Ivan.
He stood still, watching the night wore on as time flies by. After a few minutes, Ivan turned around and walked to his bed and sat on it before laying down slowly. He takes a deep breath before exhaling slowly. He turns to the side, facing the wall before slowly falling asleep in the cold night.